Murray Hill || A Superhuman Tale - 1

Chapter Twenty

It had been more than 20 years.

When he'd retired after '91—and he supposed "retired" was the right word—Tommy had thought that flying would be the thing he would miss most, the one thing he could not do without. The sensation of it was such an overwhelming, ineffable delight, and so shaky had been his resolve at that time, that he'd made a pact with himself. One day every year, away from prying eyes, he would slip away to fly.

For the first two years, he had repaired himself each April 7 to an out-of-the-way place along the south Jersey shore and, under cover of darkness, had flown to his heart's content.

On the third year, April 7, 1994, he'd rented a movie instead.

As he soared now, mad and nearly weeping with delight, he wondered what had kept him away. Tommy didn't know. Usually, there was never any doubt in his mind regarding his own motives. Here, there was no clarity. None.

Although years out of practice, he found that he could still soar like a jet. A good tailwind at 20,000 feet or so pushed him on. The cold, like the heat, was no impediment—the leather jacket was to protect his clothes not to warm his body—and the thin air at that altitude was something he scarcely noticed. The major highways, which were etched clearly beneath, were a flawless map across the country.

Unlike most who had this Gift, Tommy could fly at unimaginable speeds. He was virtually invulnerable, tougher even than the likes of Sam Babington. Flight is a splendid Gift, but not so much when not paired with heightened physical durability, the absence of which limited reasonable speeds, even with protective gear, to a few hundred miles per hour. Vanishingly few people had both Gifts.

There was a single effective speed-limit on Tommy. Normal clothing tended to shred at high speeds, and even thick leather didn't stand up long to the highest speeds at which he could soar. There was little conventional modesty in Tommy's character, having grown up in a time when nudity bore no special shame, so he gladly would fly naked, and had done so, save for the attention it attracted when landing. Despite that fact, he thought the form-fitting, aerodynamic suits he'd once or twice seen worn by others were comical. A man's gotta have some dignity.

Save for a short restroom break near Tulsa, there was no reason to stop, and he arrived in the airspace near Flagstaff about half an hour before dawn. Coming to a complete stop a few hundred feet above the outskirts of the city, he pulled out his phone and checked an online map. Getting his bearings with the city and country spread before him like a tapestry was easy, and within 10 minutes, Tommy was on the ground near a small gas station-diner down the road a short way from Amy's home.

Linda Cahn, Amy's other half, expected him at 9:00. That left a few hours to kill.

There was a chill in the morning air at that elevation. He moseyed into the warm diner and immediately caught the scent of bacon, sausage, and gravy. Though he was clueless as to how his Gift worked, it clearly burned enormous numbers of calories. He was famished and took his time eating three breakfasts. After an hour or so reading the local newspaper and chatting with the two broadly grinning waitresses, he began making tracks toward Amy's place.

At a few minutes before the hour, he stood in front of a house of which he'd seen several online photos. This was the place. He walked up and knocked on the ornate wooden door.

A few moments of silence were followed by the sound of footsteps. The door opened, and a tall blonde-haired woman in her late thirties looked up at him. She had the outdoorsy look that Amy liked, a kind and lovely face, and a certain grace that usually was born from regular physical activity. She seemed worn and tired.